Another Tragic Case of Feeling
by RockTheWorld
Summary: UPDATED!NEW CHAPPIE!I'm not sure if I wanna continue this or where I want to take it, but right now its the follow up of the weekend after The Breakfast Club. Everyone wants to know what happened Monday, but what about what happened in between the two?
1. Long Walk Home

A/N: I'm not sure if I want to keep this one going, the idea just kind of hit me one rainy day recently. But if you read it and like it (or hate it for that matter) please let me know so I can keep going and put a little more time in to this one! Oh, as always, I have no ownership of TBC or any of its characters (millionaire John Hughes does- damn him) though if I did own Judd Nelson I would have some very naughty ideas running through my head. But read, enjoy, and REVIEW! Review me and I'll return the favor (or, so I'm a review whore- so sue me!)

As John Bender walked home he carefully fingered the new diamond stud in his ear. He couldn't believe that he and Claire had spent a whole day together and not killed each other. And not only had they not killed each other, but they had both come out of the experience liking each other. A lot. At least, he knew how much he liked her. But of course, he heard the little voice in the back of his head saying that she didn't like him. That she had deluded herself in to reaching out for someone on that long, boring Saturday in detention. He knew that she didn't go in to that library liking him or, for that matter, wanting anything to do with him at all. But he felt, at least he hoped that, she had left the library feeling something. He walked slowly past the nicer houses that surrounded the high school. He knew that soon his walk would lead him past these nice, spacious houses and they're perfectly manicured lawns. The road he was on would then lead him past small condos and duplexes, and then past the trashier apartments to the place he lived- he lived in the apartment's right outside the trailer park. In fact, he spent more time inside the trailer park than he did inside his own house.

As the sun dipped low over the trees, he watched the shadows on the ground grow long. The wind picked up and began to play with his hair. He reached up reflexively and tried his best to sweep his hair out of his eyes. He turned the corner and tripped over the sudden crack in the pavement. The transition from "their" side of town to his was almost instant. There was no in-between. As soon as you were off the main roads, you were in his side of town. He looked around "home" and almost snarled with disgust at his own "people" and the way they lived their life. He walked down his street, which was already completely dark since the county hadn't quite gotten around to fixing those street lights yet. He glanced to his left and saw one of the many neighborhood crack dealers slip some acid in to the hands of a waiting customer, a girl so pale and boney that she looked almost skeletal. John recognized her vaguely as a girl that he took to a school dance back in the seventh grade. She had been a lot cuter then. Her name was April. He picked up his pace a little, knowing his old man was going to skin him alive for not being home before nightfall. But then again, even if he was home before dark he knew his old man would find some shit to pick at him for. Shit that usually always ended up in a fight between the two. As he turned the final corner, he almost smiled to himself to see the sparse lawn, compete with an old '79 pickup on cinderblocks out front. He opened the screen door, hearing the familiar squeak and letting it shut with a bang. He surveyed the sight around him and gasped in a familiar sense of horror.

The apartment lay in shambles. The kitchen table lay overturned in the middle of the kitchenette, and the bowl of fruit that was usually on it was half way across the living room. Beer cans and shattered beer bottles lay strewn to the four corners of the apartment, lying bent and broken after being thrown. The couch was full of razor blade cuts and his mother and dog, Trixie, lay huddled together in the corner of the living room, covered in broken glass from the window and TV, which both lay busted beside them. John rushed over to his mother.

"Mom?! What happened?"

"You're dad and I got in another fight."

"What about this time?"

"What do you think?"

John nodded and helped his mother stand up. He took Trixie in his arms and led both of them to the back bedroom, where his mom and dad usually slept. He set Trixie down on the floor after looking over her carefully and finding nothing but a few small cuts and what appeared to be a bruised rib or two. She had encountered much worse over the years. His mother was another story.

Her hair was matted to her head with blood. Her eye was already swollen and blackened; her arms were covered in small cuts and bruises. Her leg, which had been broken almost a week ago, was splattered with blood. John helped his mother in to bed, saying nothing. She was right; he knew what the fight had been about. The fight had been about him. The fights were always about him. He knew that his mother didn't like him either, but at least his mom always did her best not to talk bad about him, unless her dad was already laying in to him. John knew that his mom loved him, that she was just trying to divert his dad's drunken rages on to someone else. But John still found it really hard to forgive her cowardice. He headed back to the living room and began to pick up the living room. He took all of the beer bottles and cans and threw them out the back window in to the dumpster. He began to sweep up the broken glass, cutting himself at least a hundred times in the process. He was used to pain. Just as he was turning the kitchen table right side up, he heard a key in the door. He looked up as the bulky figure of his father filled the doorway.

His father was about 6'2, 250 pounds of solid bulk. He had long, stringy, oily hair and packed a mean right hook. His eyes were bloodshot from years of tequila and dope, and every day he wore a ring on each finger, a habit that lead to some rather interesting bruises on some days. His father stood in the doorway, his hands full of paper bags that no doubt contained only beer and no groceries, even though John new that the only thing in the refrigerator right now was a jar of mayonnaise. John's father crossed the apartment in three quick strides, setting the paper bags down on the counter and pulling a beer out of the bag, smiling to himself as he heard the fizz as he pulled the tab. John shook his head in disgust and set the last chair at its place around the table. He began to walk to his room, which involved walking past his dad. That was the biggest mistake he could have made.

Just as John crossed one foot in to his fathers past, he felt his fathers hand on the back of his neck. His instincts led him to raise his arm and reach out to smack his dad. But his dad was too quick. His dad reached out and hit him square in the nose, causing his eyes to water and John to drop his hand. John wondered what had provoked the attack this time when suddenly his question was answered. He felt his dads hand creep around his neck and grasp firmly on to the diamond earring he was wearing. Before John could stop him, John felt his dad pull on the earring with all of his strength.

John collapsed to the floor, screaming in pain. Blood gushed from both his nose and his ear where the flesh had been torn all the way through. He looked up at his dad who held the bloody stud in his hand. He looked disgustedly down at John.

"Wazzis? Diamonds? Where'd you get it? Stole it, no doubt, yalil shit. Duzzn surprise me. Or fucked some little rich girl and got it as payment. I don't really care. But you look like a fag wearing it. Now get up and get this hellhole cleaned up. And you make one more fucking peep and I'll take that dog of yours and shoot it square between the eyes. Don't try me on that, you little no good dis-respecting fucker."

And with that Johns father kicked him once square in the ribs before spitting on his son's head. John lay on the floor quietly. He knew his dad was telling the truth about Trixie. He had threatened to do it before and the last time he had defied his dad, he had almost broke Trixie's back. John lay there on the kitchen floor, noticing how dirty it was as he listened to his dad peeing, brushing his teeth, and then finally slamming the door to his room. He heard him begin to speak to his mom in apologetic, soothing overtones, and after a while he heard the rhythmic squeaks of the bed springs that told him it was ok to get up and move. John hurriedly set up the last of the kitchen utensils in their proper place before he grabbed his trench coat and scarf and opened the door quietly. He spit quickly on to the door hinges to keep them from squeaking and then he shut the door softly behind him. He pulled a handkerchief of his grandma's out of his pocket and held it to his ear, trying to stop the bleeding. The slightest movements made him wince in pain. His ear had been torn clean through. John walked quickly, fingering the switchblade and thinking of where he could go. He couldn't go home- he knew that his dad would be passed out until tomorrow afternoon, when he would wake up again and go straight back to drinking. He wouldn't even notice that John was gone. He could go to Lizz's house, but he knew that she probably wasn't home- there was supposed to be a big rave on the other side of town, and he would have put a hundred dollars on the fact that that's where she would be. If he had a car he could have gone to his aunt's house, but he didn't have a car or cab fare. So he just kept walking. He walked half the night, not noticing where he was going. Eventually he jerked his head up and looked around him. It was pitch black and he didn't quite know where he was until he passed a familiar rose garden that held a rather familiar looking pot of geraniums as well. Claire's house. Of all the places. He glanced at his watch and it read 3:42 am. John knew that he couldn't exactly just go ring the doorbell, but he really needed to see her all of a sudden. He needed to see her smile, hear her voice, and just hold her in his arms. He circled the house slowly, noticing only one window with the light still lit. He picked up a handful of little rocks and began chucking them at the window, praying to God that, for once in his life, something would work out in his favor. He smiled as he saw the brilliant flash of red hair, those marvelously white teeth as she saw him and waved, motioning that she'd be right down.


	2. One Sick Fuck

Andrew Clark looked around his dad's truck and his arm instantly raised and felt the space where his latest patch had been before Allison had ripped it off. Allison... Andrew knew that she was the last person in the world that he would ever actually end up dating in high school. The last time they tried it, they had both failed miserably. Andrew knew that he wasn't able to be a good boyfriend. He didn't know how to be. He had never taken the time to learn how to be a good boyfriend. In between taking care of his little sister, keeping his dad in check, and all of the wrestling, he had never taken the time to really get involved. Which is why being popular almost struck Andrew as ironic. He didn't ever do anything to be popular. All he did was wrestle. But that letter jacket had earned him a spot in Shermer High's in crowd. But Andrew wasn't sure how much longer he actually wanted to be involved in the in-crowd.

As the red pick up truck pulled in to the driveway, Andrew hopped out, his feet hitting the ground with a resonating slap. Without looking at his dad, he walked inside and up to his room, shutting the door, hoping for once that his dad would get the message and leave him alone. But sadly, his dad was as dense as ever, and just as Andrew had lay down to begin thinking about exactly what had happened that day, he heard the familiar pounding knock on his door. He didn't say anything, and his father barged right in anyway.

"So how'd it go?"

"How do you think it went, pop?"

"Hey, don't give me that lip. You're lucky I was able to get you detention instead of suspension. You want to miss state and blow your ride?"

Andrews's father crossed across the faded carpet and stood, looming over his son's bed. He stared Andrew straight in the face.

"You hear me? You keep acting like some little retard and you're gonna blow your ride and everything we've worked for the past ten years. And I'm not gonna let that happen. I've sacrificed a lot for you- this whole damn family has, and we're not about to see you blow it because you got it into your head to keep acting like a fucking discipline case. So you just straighten up and get back on track, boy."

Andrew looked up in to the face of a man he hardly knew anymore. He remembered when he was little and he used to sit on his dads shoulders, thinking how cool his dad was. But the guy that Andrew used to love didn't exist anymore. The only thing left was a sorry has-been who drinks way too much and doesn't do anything for his family but yell. And Andrew knew it, and his dad did too. Andrew knew that he should stand up and yell back at his father- tell him exactly how much wrestling was hurting his life, show his dad exactly how much he had to sacrifice just to please him. But he also knew that he couldn't do that. Doing that would ruin his dad, and Andrew didn't want to do that. As much as he hated him, he didn't want to do that.

When Andrews's dad left and shut the door, Andrew picked up his phone and sat down on his bed. He held the phone loosely in his hand and looked around at his room, seeing something he hadn't ever seen before. Suddenly the pictures of blonde supermodels that hung on his wall were disgusting. His bed, a four post bed with a plaid flannel cover and a place that usually held the most comfort, looked worn and tattered. Even the teddy bear he got when he was 7 from his first girlfriend on their one day anniversary looked stupid and out of place. Suddenly Andrew knew that he couldn't stand being in that room anymore. He put the phone back in its charger and grabbed another sweat coat from his closet. He ran down the stairs and slammed the door. He was halfway down the block before he heard his mom come out and call his name.

Andrew stopped running about three blocks away from his house. He didn't know where he was going to go. He didn't have a lot of options. Stubby was hung over, he couldn't go home, Claire didn't want to see him, and he didn't even know where Allison lived. Andrew shoved his hands deep in to his pockets and began to walk, his head down, watching as the shadows beneath his feet lengthened. The next time he looked up, Andrew knew that he had walked too far.

The terrain that surrounded him was familiarly strange. He had driven through the slums of Shermer before, but never actually walked through them. He was always afraid of them, of the people that lived in them.

'_Of the people like John_ ', he thought to himself.

Andrew began to walk the way he thought he had come, but ended up taking too many wrong turns, until he was deep in to the heart of the ghetto. He looked around him and saw a trailer park and a set of trashy apartments. H saw fires in trash cans and teenage girls passed out on stoops and curbs. Somewhere in the distance he heard a baby cry. For the first time in a very long time, Andrew felt extremely lost and scared. He began to walk again, this time towards the trailer park, hoping to use their phone, when a glimpse of bright red hair caught his eye. He did a double take and was surprised to find Claire walking arm and arm with Bender towards the set of apartments in front of the trailer park. Andrew began to follow them up three flights of stairs and down the hall. Just as he was about make himself known, Bender turned and lunged at him, his switchblade pressed to his throat. Andrew screamed.

"SHH!!! Shut up," Bender backed off, realizing who it was, and threw Andrew a glance that meant shut up or I really will kill you.

"What the hell, Bender?"

"What the hell to you, Sporto? Why the fuck are you following us, and what the hell are you doing at my apartment."

"I...I got lost."

"You got lost? What the hell do you mean you got lost? You're not a little kid, how do you get lost?"

"I just started walking. I wasn't looking where I was going and I ended up here. I was just about to go ask the trailer park owner to let me use his phone when I saw the two of you and thought I'd say hi."

"Well...hi. You can't use Pete's phone. He hasn't had one since he sold it to get dope money. But I'll tell you what, how about you hang with us tonight?"

"Sure. What are you guys planning on doing?"

"Do you really fucking care?"

Andrew laughed and shook his head, "No, not really. Just as long as I don't have to go home."

Claire looked at him, friendly concern filling her eyes, "Why? What happened?"

"Long story. So what are you guys doing?"

"John just has to get some stuff from his room and then we're gonna go find someplace to hang out."

"Wait...what kind of stuff?"

Bender just turned around and winked at him before opening the door slowly and creeping inside. Andrew was getting ready to follow when John motioned no. Bender closed the door quickly and his footsteps retreated to what sounded like the very back of the apartment. Claire and Andrew waited in a comfortable silence that surprised Andrew. It was only another five or ten minutes before Andrew and Claire heard a loud bang come from the apartment, a bang that sounded a lot like a gun shot. Bender came out of silently, looking shocked and afraid. He turned quickly and walked without speaking. Andrew and Claire followed him and they walked for about a mile without speaking. Andrew spoke first.

"Hey Bender, what the hell happened back there? What was that noise? What happened to your ear? What the fuck is going on, man?"

Bender stopped and looked at Andrew. Andrew could see his face streaked with tears. His face turned red with anger that wasn't really directed towards Andrew.

"I'll tell you what happened. My dad is a fucking lunatic. That's what happened. You see my ear? That's where my dad ripped out an earring. He pulled it right through my fucking skin. And you want to know what that loud bang was? Alright fine. When I went back in to my apartment, my shoes squeaked on the tile in our kitchen and my dad woke up. I don't know how he did- he was drunker than hell and passed out. Or at least, that's what I thought. Apparently not. Well, my dad hates being woken up. So he fucking took his semi-automatic .22 and shot my dog Trixie in the back of the fucking head while she slept. Blew her fucking brains out all over my mom's new bedroom carpet. He's still got the blood on his shirt. And then he just went and lay back down like he didn't do a damn thing. I've had that dog since I was fucking three years old. And he shot her like he was shooting tin cans. That's what that sound was. Like I said my dad's one sick fuck."

Andrew and Claire just looked at Bender, amazed at the story he had just told them. Claire moved towards Bender, starting to embrace him. But he pushed her off and slapped her.

"Don't fucking touch me. I don't' need your pity, Princess. Why don't you go hug Sporto or find Brainiac, someone who really needs you, because as much as I'd love to fuck another girl who doesn't matter, I really don't have time right now to deal with that, or with you, or with any of your shit. So thank you, but fuck you. And Sporto, so glad you join us on this lovely night. But go home and wack off to a wrestling video or something."

And with that Bender turned on his heal and began to walk quickly down the street, turning the corner and leaving Andrew and Claire standing in amazement. Claire turned and looked at Andrew, tears welling up in her eyes, her cheek turning red from the slap.

"What are you looking at me for? What the hell can I do?"

"You can help me look for him, Andrew. He needs us now, as much as he says he doesn't."

Claire wiped her cheeks and began to walk after Bender. Andrew stood in place a few more minutes before following the both of them. Andrew knew Claire was right and that they needed to find Bender before he did something stupid to himself or someone else. But Andrew also knew that nothing they could do would ever help Bender. At this point Bender couldn't even help himself.


	3. Author's Apology

I'm sorry all you anxiously awaiting fans of Another Tragic Case! I know it seems as though I have deserted you! But do not fear! I will return, and return with a vengeance! I assure you that you won't be disappointed when I come back! It's just that, at the moment, I'm extremely busy, killing myself trying to finish my other fiction (A Dead Poets Society fanfic under the title Just Too Late- If I were cool like you I'd definitely check it out) and as soon as that's done I promise you I will get right back to Bender and his tragedy. While I'm here, I might as well ask where you think I should take this, because I'm not quite sure yet... Well, I'm off like a dirty shirt! Much love,

RTW


	4. Sorry is for Shit

Brian looked around him, the trophies and plaques that surrounded his desk glinting in the dull lamplight. He set his pencil down in the spine of his book and looked around his room, trying- not for the first time- to find something about himself that he actually liked. Failing, he picked his pencil back up; he turned his attention back to chemical equations and continued to work.

When he awoke a few hours later his, his back was aching and a rather large spot of drool on his textbook. He wiped it off as best he could, then wiped his chin and shook his head, trying to clear his mind of whatever remnants of sleep were left. He looked at the clock on his desk, the bright red n umbers telling him it was well after eleven o'clock. His whole family would be asleep by now- they went to bed at precisely 10:30, after the last bought of evening news. He shut the book on his desk and stood up, stretching. His mind still flew with the dream he had been having- chemical equations interspersed with the faces of the people he had just spent all day with. Bender flashed before him, a bemused and cocky look on his face as he asked Brian for the weed that had been in his underwear. Andrew's face, stained with tears, as he told them all of how he had to deal with his father. Claire's face as she tried not to cry while Bender mocked her for a talent that seemed so innocent. And Allison, who still looked so unsure of herself as she walked out of the back room, make-up on and hair pulled back, taking her first ever shot at beauty. And now, standing in the middle of his room, walls bare and floor clean, he wished that they could all be standing back in front of them again. That they could be with him tonight, as they had been that afternoon.

Brian opened his door carefully, stopping right before he knew it would squeak. He tiptoed down the hall, stopping stock still and holding his breath when he heard his father turn over in his sleep. He walked down the stairs carefully, skipping the creaky third step. He heard his sister mutter something in his sleep, and it almost gave him a heart attack. He knew that if he were to get caught sneaking out of the house on the same day he got home from his first-ever detention, his mom would wring his neck. So he opened the door to the hall closet slowly, putting on his coat and taking his father's keys from his jacket pocket. He opened the front door and closed it almost as quickly, finding himself outside in the bitter wind. It was just cold enough to make him want to go back inside, but he knew that he would rather freeze to death than go back up to his room, where everything was white and clean and sterile and dull. He opened the car door slowly and slid in to the front seat. The car made a rumbling noise as it turned over, and Brain sat completely still. After five minutes and no other signs of life, Brian slid the car in to reverse and headed out of his neighborhood. Only when he was on the main road did he dare to turn on his headlights.

Brian had never snuck out of the house before. He had never even stayed up past his bedtime before, unless he had a test the next day that he had to study for. Brian had never NOT cleaned his room, had never NOT done the dishes or taken out the trash. Brian was, in all ways, a model son. Of course, that was up until the day Brian decided to throw his entire life away and bring the gun to school. Brian hated his life. His life was just as Bender has described it- Saccharin sweet and completely detestable.

Brian drove down the main road, his stereo loud and playing the most heavy metal stuff he could find on the radio, which was a lot at this hour of the night. Without one thought in his head, Brian turned a corner on to a side street, which was reasonably dark, seeing as how the county hadn't quite gotten around to fixing those street lights. He drove slowly, looking around a part of town he always tried to stay away from. He pulled to a stop at the corner and a leggy blonde girl in a tight red dress and tall black boots approached Brian's passenger side window. He rolled it down, thanking God that his dad had gotten new power windows installed just last week.

"Hey stud. You looking for a good time?"

"Um...I…um…er-"

"What's the matter big boy? Cat got your tongue?"

Brian nodded, noticing that up close the girl was not all that pretty.

"Well, that's okay. Look, I think you're new at this, so I'll cut you a deal. Fifty bucks. Two hours. I'm yours. What do you say to that, stud?"

"I say that cherry here doesn't want any of what you got, Keri, so why don't you go hit another street corner."

Brian looked past Keri to see the tall form of bender, standing right behind her. For some reason, he felt much calmer with Bender there.

"John, why don't you find some other poor working girl to bother? This one ain't interested."

"That's not the tune you were singing last week, now, was it Keri?"

Keri spun around and put her hands on her hips, her heels making her almost eye level with Bender. She jut out her chin and stepped forward, trying to make him move his ground.

"Now you listen here Mr. Big shot. I don't need you telling me which tricks I can and cannot turn! This is my street, Bender, and you'd do well to just stay the hell off of it you bast-" Keri wasn't able to get the rest of the words out of her mouth, as Bender raised his left hand and smacked her square across the jaw. From where Brian was sitting in the car, the whole thing looked some kind of horrific movie, and it was all he could do to keep from crying out in shock as Keri went tumbling to the pavement. The next thing Brian knew, Bender was sitting in the front seat of his car, putting his seatbelt on. _Well, at least Bender has a mind for safety_, Brian thought bitterly.

"Drive, Cherry."

"Where to?"

"Does it look like I give a fuck, Brainiac? Just drive!"

Brian punched his foot down on the gas, sending them rocketing out in to the street, narrowly missing another parked car. He looked at Bender out of the corner of his eye and saw that he was nursing his ear and that his eyes were rimmed in red, as though he had been crying.

"What happened to your ear, Bender?"

"JUST KEEP YOUR EYES ON THE FUCKING ROAD AND LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE!" John shouted, his voice echoing off the roof of the small car. John sat back, amazed at how much he sounded exactly like his father. Brian nodded and turned his attention back to the road. The two drove in silence for another twenty minutes before Brian dared to open his mouth again.

"Thanks for helping me out with that girl back there. I didn't really know what to do."

"You don't know this side of town, Cherry. I do. The people here are all the same. All of us. You either put us in our place or we run wild, like chickens without dicks." Brian laughed at the image, but he stopped short when he felt his cheek sting with the incoming slap. "You think I'm joking, fuck bag? You think I'm fucking joking with this shit. Well, fuck you, kid. You don't know what it's like to be me. You spend one single night in my town, in my house, and then we'll see how hard you laugh."

"I'm sorry, Bender," Brian said quietly, his cheek still red and tingly.

"Sorry is for shit, Brian. That's one thing you better learn fast. Sorry won't get your dumb-ass shit in this life, so you might as well stop saying it."

Brian nodded, feeling a small ember of joy in the pit of his stomach. Bender had used his real name. Not "Cherry". Not "Brainiac". Not even "Fuck Bag", which seemed to be his favorite. He had called him Brian.


	5. For Her Pleasure

Allison slid down in to the front seat of her step-mom's car, slamming the door, listening as the sound echoed off the roof. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, sighing deeply and clutching her bag more tightly to her chest. Soon, the only sound in the car was the constant sound of wind rushing past the window and, on infrequent intervals, her step-mother's exhale of cigarette smoke. Allison opened her eyes slightly and glanced at her step mother, a tall, leggy woman with blonde hair piled atop her head and a red halter dress and plunging neckline. A cigarette dangled precariously from her lips, the ashes growing longer and longer until Allison was surprised that they hadn't fallen off. Allison set her head back against the seat and closed her eyes again, feeling relief fill her bones as they pulled in to her driveway. She was always glad the ride was so short. The two got out of the car and shut their doors simultaneously. Allison plowed past her step mother and her father who was standing in an apron over a boiling pot on the stove. Neither said a word to her, and she didn't say anything to them either. She charged her way up the stairs, walking quickly towards her room stationed at the end of the hall and shutting the door with a force behind her, locking it with one fluid motion.

Allison sighed as she dropped her bag to her feet, kicking it to the side. She flopped herself down on her four-poster bed, painted white with pink flowers. Allison hated her room. Everything was pink. Bright, cotton-candy, five-year-old-girl pink. And Allison hated every inch of it. Even the carpet, what you could see of it, was pink. Allison had done her best to cover it up over the years, but it was a favorite topic of argument in her household. Her walls were covered with as many posters as she could, and her floor was littered with piles and piles of black. But the pink still shone through in places; flashes of sickening sweet in a dark and musty world.

Allison reached a hand under her bed and pulled out a small cardboard box. She opened it with one hand, supporting herself with the other. She rummaged around for a split second before she found what she was looking for. She pulled it out and slammed it down in front of her, pushing herself back on to the bed at the same time. She flipped through the dusty pages of last year's yearbook with abandon, as if she didn't know where she was going. And then, there she was. His face shone out from the sports page. He was highlighted for wrestling, of course, but also for football, basketball, track and field, and even as manager of the swim team. He was everywhere. And she loved it. In each picture he looked the same. His head was tilted to the left, and his hand was on his hip or holding some kind of sports ball. He had a cocky grin on his face, and he looked happy. Happier than he had been earlier that day.

Allison hated to admit that, as much as she didn't want to care, she had felt her heart strings tug when she had seen Andrew break down. When he began to sob and the tears began to run down his face, she had urged so deeply – so deeply that it scared her – to reach out and just touch him. To pat his shoulder, play with his hear, kiss his cheek. To just do something to comfort him. But she had stayed back, wrapped in more than her layers of clothing. She tried to relate to him. But it had taken them so long. By the time he got to her – or she to him, because she still wasn't sure which one happened first – it had been time to go. And she knew that she had to look away, walk away. She knew that he wouldn't look back, so she couldn't look back either. At least, not as his actual face. But there he was, well documented in the pages of her yearbook. Hers for the viewing whenever she wished. She didn't know how long she had been looking at the picture, but then the phone rang. When Allison put the book down and picked up the phone, she glanced at her pink wall-clock, realizing it was already ten-thirty.

Allison rolled over and picked it up, holding it gingerly to her ear. She could hear street sounds, but no people. She sighed deeply in to the phone, knowing that she wouldn't be the first to speak. Finally the awkward silence was broken.

"Um....hello?"

"Hello?"

"Allison?"

"Yeah," Allison sat up on her bed, crossing one leg over the other. She switched the phone to her other hand and picked the yearbook back up, examining it more closely.

"Hey Allison. It's me, Claire." Allison dropped the yearbook, and it went clattering to the floor.

"Claire?! How did you get this number?"

"Phonebook. Look, do you have a car?"  
"No...," Allison picked the yearbook up and put it back on her bed. Her interest was caught. The most popular girl in school was calling her and asking her if she had a car. Something was up.

"Do you think you could get one?"

"Probably. Why?"

"Good. Pick us up at the corner of Troost and 16th street. In twenty minutes. Can you do that?"

"Yeah, I guess. But why? What's up?"

"Just be here, please."

The line went dead. Allison shrugged her shoulders and hung up the phone. She grabbed another coat, knowing how much colder it was now that the sun had gone down. She walked down stairs and grabbed the keys to her mom's car off of the counter. She walked right out the front door and didn't bother trying to be quiet. She knew that her parent's didn't care and wouldn't try to stop her. That would involve talking to her, and they always tried to avoid that if possible. She knew that most kids would think she was the luckiest kid in the world – she could do whatever she wanted, go anywhere, hang out with anyone she wanted to. But she knew what they didn't – they were so much luckier to have been grounded and yelled at.

She slid in to the front seat of the car, slid the car in to reverse, and punched the gas to the floorboard. She pulled out of her neighborhood, and slammed in to all of her turns. She got there in ten, when it probably should have taken her fifteen. She pulled up to the corner and was surprised when both the passenger's side and the back door opened immediately. She wasn't surprised to see Claire slide in to the front with her. After all, it was Claire that called. But when she looked in to her rearview mirror and saw a set of deep brown eyes and handsome dimples, she gripped the steering wheel so hard that her knuckles turned white. She cleared her throat and tried to get a more composed grip on herself.

"So...um...what's up?"

"Drive."

"Listen here, Claire. Just because you're prom queen or some shit, this is my car and it's my ass on the line if we get caught doing something we're not supposed to. So tell me or step back outside."

"I'll tell you why we drive, okay. It's just important. GO!"

Allison slammed her foot down reluctantly and pulled back out in to the street. "Okay. Now tell me why you called at almost eleven."

"We need to find Bender," said Andrew's sultry voice from the back seat. Claire nodded in agreement.

"We were with him and we went back to his place. His dad...freaked out, and he took off. We don't really know where he is, but he's really pissed and he's got a lot of drugs on him, so Andrew and I were worried." A small, disagreeing cough echoed from the back seat. Claire shot a glare back at him, the turned back around. "We're worried about him, and you're the only person we could think of to call. Can you think of any place he could be?"

Allison racked her brain, but could think of only one place. "He had a lot of drugs on him, eh?"

"Yeah. He went back in to grab his stash. We think he brought it all. And knowing John, that's a lot."

"And you don't think he'd be in the mood to hang out with anyone?" Both teens shook their head. "I can only think of one place to be alone and smoke that much weed." Both teens looked at her expectantly.

"Well?" Andrew probed, leaning forward so that Allison caught a whiff of his cologne.

"McCarvers Point."

The two teen exchanged a worried look. They all knew about McCarvers Point, and they all knew, as though it had just occurred to them, that Bender couldn't be anywhere else. Claire nodded at Allison, and so she cranked the wheel, slammed on the gas, and pulled a U-ey.


End file.
